Still as she spoke, th’ enthusiast’s kindling eye Was lighted up with inborn majesty, While her fair form and youthful features caught All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, Severely beauteous.[78] Awe-struck and amazed, In silent trance a while the warrior gazed, As on some lofty vision--for she seem’d One all-inspired--each look with glory beam’d, While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes, Her soul at once in all its light arose. Oh! ne’er had Hamet deem’d there dwelt enshrined In form so fragile that unconquer’d mind; And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there He stood--till wonder yielded to despair. “The dream is vanish’d--daughter of my foes! Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot! Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid! In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d, Farewell, and be thou blest!--all words were vain From him who ne’er may view that form again-- Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be, He _hath_ been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!” And is the warrior gone?--doth Zayda hear His parting footstep, and without a tear? Thou weep’st not, lofty maid!--yet who can tell What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell? _They_ feel not least, the firm, the high in soul, Who best each feeling’s agony control. Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief Which finds in misery’s eloquence relief; But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow? The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, Scorning itself that thus it _could_ be moved? He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, Views all its weakness, pities all its throes; He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, Beholding anguish--all unknown to them. Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains, In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies; While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave, Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave: Mourn, for thy doom is fixed--the days of fear, Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near! Within, around thee, are the trophied graves Of kings and chiefs--their children shall be slaves. Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell, But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell; For midst thy councils discord still presides, Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides-- Last of a line whose regal spirit flown Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne, Without one generous thought, or feeling high, To teach his soul how kings should live and die.